Freedom's Just Another Word
by Ariadne's Folly
Summary: Perhaps not all prisoners were meant to be freed... Sequel to So Much For My Happy Ending. Contains strong language, adult themes and explicit descriptions. Continues from the end of the movie for Sweetpea, and from the end of So Much For My Happy Ending for Rocket and Babydoll.
1. Sweetpea

**Freedom's Just Another** **Word**  
_Sequel to: So Much for My Happy Ending_

**Copyright Disclaimer:** The characters featured in the cast of Sucker Punch written herein do not belong to me, they belong to their creator Zack Snyder and are the sole property of Warner Bros. Inc. Italicized dialogue is taken directly from the screenplay and may belong to Zack Snyder or Steve Shibuya. Any characters and additional storyline written are sole property of the Elves Living Inside of My Skull.

**Content Disclaimer: **The movie was rated PG-13 and skirted around many of the issues of the characters being affected by sex and violence by escaping into other realities. While I will be writing these elements into the story, I plan on showing things as they are, this story will contain strong language and elements of physical/sexual violence, as well as other adult themes.

**Rape Disclaimer**: It was evident in the movie that the girls were being assaulted against their will, it is now also part of their back story. I plan to address this issue and if reading about rape drastically affects you in a negative manner, this is probably not the story for you.

**Spoilers Disclaimer:** This story takes place after the end of the movie, and after the end of my first story so it will reference things that have already happened. We begin at the end, with Sweetpea this time.

**Update Disclaimer:** I am a sporadic writer, and very busy, so if the time between updates becomes unbearable, I am truly sorry, but I'll try my best. Those of you who stayed with me through So Much for My Happy Ending know this feeling well already..._  
_

**Chapter 1 Sweetpea**

_And finally, this question: The mystery of who's story it will be. Of who draws the curtain. Who is it that chooses our steps in the dance? Who drives us mad, lashes us with whips and crowns us with victory when we survive the impossible? Who is it that does all these things? Who honors those we love with the very life we live? Who sends monsters to kill us and at the same time sings that we will never die?_

_Who teaches us what's real and how to laugh at lies? Who decides why we live and what We'll die to defend? Who chains us? And who holds the Key that can set us free?_

_It's you._

_You have all the weapons you need._

_Now Fight._

Welcome to the Town of Plainfield.

The sign, once bright and inviting, now only boasted chipped paint, its colors fading in the sun's dying rays. Its attempt to lift the spirits of the bus riders fell woefully short as they pulled into the small station. Sweetpea watched a small portion of the riders exit as the bus stopped and the doors swung open with a hiss. She made sure to leave only after no one else rose up from their seats. Walking down the aisle cautiously, she approached the driver.

"What am I supposed to do now?" She asked him.

The driver turned and blinked at her owlishly, the glasses magnifying his eyes.

"Why, my dear, I have no idea." He replied, seemingly clueless.

"You had a plan for me, didn't you? That's why you took me on board." _This is a test._ "There's a mission, right? There has to be, there's always a mission." She hadn't meant to, but Sweetpea's voice became louder as her nervousness increased, by now she was almost shouting her last plea. "At least give me some advice, you always gave us advice!"

The driver took in her disheveled form and let out an exasperated sigh. "Look miss, I don't mean to be cruel, but today was the first time I've set eyes on you. I just let you on as a kindness." He looked out the thick windows at the small town they had stopped in. "If this is your stop, then it's where you were meant to be, and I don't know anything about these missions you spoke of, but I guess I could give you some of my wisdom."

Sweetpea walked down the steps and jumped into the dirt, a puff of dust announcing her landing. She waited, grateful for at least that small gift.

"Old habits die hard," he advised, "try to make some new ones."

A small form bolted off the bus and blew past Sweetpea mere seconds before the doors shut with a final, sibilant hiss. As the engine revved and the vehicle drove off, Sweetpea turned around to search for the child. She had felt an odd sense of deja vu from that quick encounter. The streets she saw were empty though, she was the only one left at the station.

It took a while for her to remember all the street names and form a mental map, but after a few minutes Sweetpea had regained her bearings. She set off down the main thoroughfare, her mother's house as her final destination.

So lost in thought was Sweetpea that she failed to notice the bright eyes and quiet steps of her tail. The boy from the bus was following her. He would wait until nightfall, when she dropped her guard, then he would have his chance.

A few miles in ill fitting institution shoes is enough to drive anyone mad, and Sweetpea was no exception. The pain had just taken a tinge of the unbearable when she came upon the street sign, its darkened letters matching her childhood neighborhood's. It had gone from sunset to early twilight during her journey, and the sodium yellow streetlamps cast eerie shadows along the street. _There is nothing to fear._ She told herself. _It's only houses, only memories._

She counted in her head. One, two, three...

Her mother's house was the fourth one on the street, and it was there that she forced her feet away from the sidewalk. Her steps were jerky. Up the driveway she went, gravel crunching underfoot, the light perfume of night blooming jasmine in the air. The scents and sounds of childhood came flooding back, threatening to overwhelm her.

_That's not me. I left that all behind_.

She took the two steps up onto the porch. _One, two, buckle my- No._ She shook her head, trying to dispel the memories. Before she had time to think about it, Sweetpea watched her finger depress the bell. She held her breath as the noise flooded the house. Sweetpea counted to ten, willing herself to freeze on the porch, to ignore the signals her body was screaming at her, that she was in danger, that she should run, that anything she could do would be better than facing her mother again, here of all places.

Margaret O'Conner had lived alone for years. The tragic loss of both her husband and daughters had been almost unbearable, there were long months where she forgot even the simplest tasks, like eating and bathing. But that was before she had learned to become stone, and it was this newly hardened woman that answered the door.

"Who's there?" She questioned. "No one decent calls at this hour."

"It's me, Mom, Sarah..." The name felt wrong on her tongue. "I've come home. Roc- Raquelle asked me to."

"And you just come strolling back, brazen as a new bell, pretending like nothing bad ever happened." Her mother accused. "Don't you know how much I've suffered?"

Margaret put one palm on the screen, pushing forward to open it slightly as her other hand sought out the wrought iron fire poker she kept near the door for home defense. "I think you should leave, Sarah." Her voice was cold as she spoke.

"Not yet." Sweetpea said. "I have a message, from Ra...from _Rocket_." She decided, needing to speak the truth.

Her mother sneered at that name, how she had abhorred that childhood moniker. It was a name appropriate for toys and dogs, not growing young women.

"What's the message?" Margaret took a stab in the dark, "Oh, I know, she's sorry, isn't she? Why won't she come here and tell me herself?"

"She isn't here because she died, Mother." Sweetpea explained quietly.

Her mother's response of dry, cackling laughter was more unsettling than anything she had said prior.

"Dead?" Margaret crowed, "She's dead? The harlot finally got what she deserved then, eh? Running around with boys and doing things no proper lady would do, that's what comes of it in the end."

Sweetpea's rage started to break free of its confines, boiling over in fits and starts. She stepped forward towards the door, gripping the peeling wooden frame as she locked eyes with her mother. Her eyes flickered, blaring klaxons of amber rage.

"That's your answer?" She asked sharply. "Rocket's last words were, 'Tell mom I love her.' and this is how you react?"

Her mother's response was two feet of wrought iron, straight to the liver.

Sweetpea doubled over in pain, her breath leaving with a gasp.

"Love has never fixed anything, Sarah. Don't you know that?" Margaret had opened the door wider, enough to step out and continue raining blows with her fire iron.

Sweetpea's arms curled defensively around her head and upper body. She could fight, she knew, in the other realities, but she no longer travelled there. A single, visceral memory surfaced. Sweetpea had fought back before, without the Wise Man, without the missions.  
Her mother swung again, aiming for her daughter's head. She caught it midswing. Margaret struggled, but her grip held. Sweetpea wrenched the poker out of her grip and pushed back, toppling her mother to the ground. Her mother looked up at her, panting, her beady eyes narrowed in hatred.

"Go ahead," she taunted, "finish me. Finish me like you did your father."

Sweetpea blinked, and the scene changed to one of the past.

_She was in bed, trying desperately to ignore the voices bleeding through the wall, Rocket was refusing something, her voice quiet but stern. Their father was in her room again. _

_"You filthy dyke!" His words were slurred, drunk again. The sickeningly familiar sound of fists on flesh followed soon after. "I guess I have to fuck some proper manners into you." _

_No words escaped from Rocket after that initial protest, only the muffled sobs of stifled pain as the blows continued. Sweetpea hunkered down into her pillow, pushing it around her ears in an attempt to drown out the noises. Eventually the steady tempo of the beating gave way to the irregular squeaking of bedsprings and her father's labored grunting. Those ceased abruptly, and Sweetpea heard the click of the door and her father's heavy graceless tread as he returned to the master bedroom for sleep._

"He deserved it." She could hear herself speak aloud, eyes still unseeing.

"Maybe, but that was Raquelle's debt to repay, not yours."

_Another night played out before her eyes, this one later, Rocket had run away early that morning, before the sun rose, and her father had decided that the only thing to do in response was drink, and he did, he had been at the bar from the moment they flipped the OPEN sign in the doorway. But now he was back, and Rocket wasn't around anymore to take the brunt of his urges. She could hear his wavering footsteps as he opened her old room, confused and forgetful. She thought he would rage then, howl in anger and smash the furniture in the room to kindling. Sweetpea let out a sigh of relief when the door shut and the footsteps sounded back down the hall. The breath caught in her throat when those steps paused halfway and a hand fumbled at the knob on her door._

_ She turned her back to the entryway and pulled the covers tight around her. The door swung open with a creak and Sweetpea tried to ignore it, squinting her eyes shut and willing nothing terrible to happen with every fiber of her being. Her father came closer, she wished harder, her heart fluttering in her chest like a caged bird. A rough hand on her shoulder, trying to shake her awake. When she didn't respond, he tore the covers away and rolled her to her back in one savage motion. _

_Still she remained motionless and kept her eyes screwed shut, mentally screaming, **I'm asleep, I'm asleep, I'm asleep.** The ruse failed when she felt the front of her nightshirt unbutton and the cold night air sluice across her chest. She stiffened in loathing when she felt her father's calloused palm caress a breast, Sweetpea remembered springing into action then, the full details still a blur. Her hand groped clumsily underneath the pillow, searching for the switchblade she kept there. _

_A week before, Rocket had found it somewhere and shown it to her, and Sweetpea had snatched it away, chastising Rocket for bringing weapons home, surely there must be another way of dealing with him, she had said. Sweetpea remembered Rocket's eyes after she took the knife, a mixture of simmering rage and empty hopelessness as her sister took away her last line of defense. She felt the acute burn of guilt as her hand closed around the polished wooden handle and slid it out against the silky cotton of the pillowcase. Sweetpea was grateful that she had the weapon now, but shamed that she had allowed Rocket further suffering. _

_His hands were on her in earnest and it took all of her concentration to feel along the alien profile and trigger the release catch. As Sweetpea felt the blade spring free, her only fear was of cutting her fingers off. Finally, she opened her eyes and looked up at her father, a faint silhouette, back lit with moonlight streaming in through the window. _

_"Stop." She commanded, swinging the blade up and across her body. Sweetpea had only meant to scare him off with a shallow cut, use a little pain to break through his alcohol induced stupor, but her adrenaline was up and there was too much force behind her attack. Sweetpea felt the sharp edge of the stiletto sink into flesh. Her eyes widened in shock as she realized she'd missed. Sweetpea's intended target had been the meaty part of his shoulder, but in her haste she'd swung high and ripped open the soft skin of his neck. A warm deluge of blood sprayed forth, covering her like a sudden summer rain. The hands on her chest immediately disappeared, rising to cover the newly gaping hole that had been her father's throat. He emitted a choked, gasping noise, perhaps an attempt to speak, before a fierce shudder ran through his body and he fell to the floor. His curled form twitched for a few moments before finally going still. Sweetpea remembered the sound of her breathing then, the only noise in that silence, the terrible still silence emanating from her father's body, rising like static to swamp and overwhelm her. _

_Her world shrunk down then, no emotions, only tasks, only what she had to do. She rose up out of bed, knife still in hand, and grabbed a towel from where she had draped it on a chair that morning. Quietly opening the door, she stepped out into the hallway and headed to the bathroom to shower away her father's quickly congealing life's blood. The water was hot already, but she turned it hotter, needing the heat to cleanse her of the guilt and panic that threatened to flood her senses and reason. She set to work scrubbing the thick red stains from her body, washing her hair twice just in case. Finally there was nothing left to clean except the switchblade. Sweetpea watched the water dance across the steel, purifying the weapon that was both her deliverance and damnation. She refused to think about what any of this meant. A clear head was what she needed now, a clear head, supplies and a plan._

_Sweetpea pulled an empty knapsack out of her closet, she alternately dressed and packed, putting any clothing she needed and could not layer into the sack. She studiously avoided the body and its growing pool of blood that dominated the center of her room. When her pack was full, she took one last look at her room. Sweetpea stood there, quietly memorizing her childhood and what was left of her happiness. _

_When she had taken in all she could, Sweetpea walked to the kitchen and rifled through the refrigerator. She settled on some salami and hard cheddar, and then crammed a jar of peanut butter and half a loaf of sliced bread into her pack. Supplies she had, and still her head remained blessedly empty of the roiling emotions she refused to let out of her bedroom, now all she needed was a plan. Shouldering her pack, she pulled her warmest coat out of the hall closet. Finally, she allowed herself a thought. _

_**Find Rocket**. _

_Which was the best she could come up with, under the circumstances. Sweetpea took a deep breath, walked through the front door, and shut that part of her life away._

"No, he deserved it," she repeated, "he did then and he would now." Sweetpea gave one last look to the woman who had borne and raised her, then opened her hand and let the fire iron fall to the concrete. It chipped the step where it impacted and left a harsh, pinging echo on the porch. With Rocket's final request completed, there was nothing more for her to say. Sweetpea took the two steps down off the porch and walked off into the night, alone in the world and friend only to the darkness.

When Babydoll had told her that she had to live for all of them now, surely she hadn't meant this.

Had she?


	2. Rocket and Babydoll

**Freedom's Just Another Word, Chapter 2**

**_A/N_: **_I shan't bore you with excuses, but suffice to say this fic isn't abandoned. If you would enjoy femslash smut on the interim, I recommend looking up L.L. Raand, I am not generally one for vampires and werewolves, but the plot and science are intriguing, and the love scenes almost burn your eyes out with their smoldering hotness._

_**Rocket and Babydoll**_

"It's a bunny," she decided, squinting her good eye at the fluffy surface, "definitely a bunny."

Rocket searched the heavens, trying to seek out the formation Babydoll had been looking at. "You're crazy." Rocket pronounced, seeing nothing but clear blue sky and wispy clouds. "Maybe you were supposed to be at Lennox House after all, what with your rabbit hallucinations." Rocket scowled as she turned her gaze toward the form laying next to her, taking moment to just look at her. They had found a small stream after escaping into the woods. Not ones to look a gift horse in the mouth, the pair took one look at each other, and then jumped in, still fully clothed. The initial shock of cold stole their breath, but the sensation soon gave way to the invigorating feeling of being clean and refreshed. Rocket and Babydoll had stripped in the water, watching the blood and grime rinse away in the briskly flowing current.

Now they were stretched out in the grass on a glorious afternoon, waiting for their clothing to dry. The sun rose high in the sky. Its warmth penetrated them down to their bones, a simple joy that Lennox house had robbed them of for far too long. The sunlight caught the alabaster tones of their skin, Rocket's from being institutionalized for so many years, and Babydoll's naturally pale luminescence. The bright light showed the sharp contrast where milky white flesh intersected with the bruises and cuts of their myriad battle wounds. Rocket, having borne the brunt of the battle, had significantly more damage revealed, and her hide was becoming akin to that of a Dalmatian.

"Okay," Babydoll admitted, "I don't see bunnies in the clouds." She rolled closer to Rocket and bumped shoulders with her.

"I do...however..." She continued, running a slow and teasing finger across Rocket's ribcage, "see a whole circus' worth of animals all over your skin."

"Oh?" Rocket asked, suddenly intrigued by the game as her breathing hitched. "Like what?"

"This one, for instance." Babydoll explained, dragging her fingernails lightly across Rocket's gently fluctuating stomach, the surface stilled under her fingertips as she circled a mottled bruise. "This one looks like a lion, ready to roar." At the word 'roar,' Babydoll growled and released a heated breath against Rocket's abdomen, causing her to close her eyes and swallow loudly as she tried to regain her focus.

"A lion, huh?" Rocket responded, as an eyebrow rose in challenge.

"Definitely." Babydoll agreed, continuing her teasing exploration as she realized she had subdued her victim. Her hands drifted upward until she was straddled over Rocket, whose wrists were pinned to the soft loam. "And here..." Babydoll lowered her lips against a dark smudge and a healing cut that shadowed Rocket's cheekbone. "We have an otter..."

"An otter." Rocket echoed obediently, her voice husky and beginning to bleed with need. "I may be beginning to see things from your perspective."

"You do, huh?" Babydoll asked, a pleased smirk played across her lips, lips placed so tantalisingly close to Rocket's that all she could think of was tasting them.

Taste them she would.

"Well." Rocket growled, coiling like a spring as she set her own plan into motion. "I think you have a menagerie of you own." She skirted sideways, toppling Babydoll as she rolled on top of her and claimed the dominant position. "And these," Rocket paused as they shared breath and a smoldering gaze, "look sleek and red as foxes." She kissed Baby with a fierce possessiveness that stole her breath away. Rocket's hands began to wander down her body, Babydoll closed her eyes to better feel the faint touch sending shivers down her spine, shivers that wouldn't stop.

The shaking continued, intensifying until it had worked itself into her jaw, causing Babydoll's teeth to chatter. The sensation was so jarring she forced her eyes open, needing to see what Rocket was doing to cause this chill.

The black interior of a barn's hay loft stared back at her, reminding her of the stark reality they actually inhabited.

A singular leaded glass bay window framed the night down below them, moonlight streaming in through the warped panes. The faint light was enough that Babydoll could make out her companion's outline, quaking in the frigid night as well. Rocket's eyes glittered in the darkness, like a creature gone feral. Babydoll shivered again, this time only half with cold.

"Rocket." She called, steeling herself from reacting as the predatory gaze turned upon her. "I know..." She paused, sighing inwardly. "I know I'm not your favorite person right now, but it's freezing cold tonight, and if we stay apart, it's only a matter of time before we catch our deaths in sickness, and then escaping will have been for nothing." Babydoll waited, hoping.

Without speaking a word, Rocket rose up from her crouched position, uncoiling like a mantis as she moved towards Babydoll, dragging a coarsely woven blanket with her. Had she been that gaunt before leaving Lennox House? Babydoll couldn't remember. Baby laid flat on her own horse blanket, spread out over a pile of straw. She gestured at Rocket to lay down with her, who obliged. After coming in contact with her companion, however, Babydoll almost regretted the request. Whatever cold and frigid hell she thought she had experienced, Rocket had suffered much worse. The skin of her upper body felt like ice, and Babydoll didn't even want to contemplate the sub zero temperatures of cuddling up to her feet and other extremities.

"Rocket!" She exclaimed, pulling a second horse blanket over them. "You're freezing!"

"It's cold." Rocket replied, flat and monotone, as if that explained everything; and maybe it did.

* * *

They had come upon the abandoned barn in the early stages of sunset, and it had provided them with a host of meager treasures, the first of which had been a horse trough. Seeing the crystal liquid cool and clear and blessedly free of algae seemed like an impossible gift. Rocket fell to her knees before the metal trough and slurped greedily until she had quenched her thirst. Babydoll, maintaining some decorum, knelt down next to her and drank from a cupped palm until she had done the same.

Rocket noticed, as she palmed the water into her trail parched throat, that the blood caked on her hands was seeping into the water supply, leaving crimson trails in the liquid like drops of ink. Quickly, she pulled her hand out and searched for a nearby container. A dented but serviceable bucket answered her call, and she dipped it into the water next to Babydoll's still sipping form. Baby looked up at her, confused, but continued drinking all the same. Rocket plunked the bucket onto the ground and shoved both forearms in, furiously rubbing at the blood darkened skin until the familiar yellowy tones of her institution paleness shone through. Try as she might, the dark lines of rust under her fingernails refused to recede, Blue would stay with her awhile longer.

"I need a brush." Rocket stated absently, looking towards the only structure for miles. The barn, though old and suffering from years of abandonment and disuse, still maintained a functional door and had saved every one of its leaded glass panes. Lucky that, Rocket thought, as she picked up her pail and made her way towards the door. As she approached she noticed the whitewash peeling from the crossbeam slashed across its surface. Placing the bucket back on the ground, Rocket latched her fingers around the edge of the door and tugged with all her strength, or what was left of her strength after the fight and subsequent flight from Lennox House. The door resisted at first, but Rocket persevered, and, with a groan, the portal slid open, allowing her entrance. Rocket picked up her bucket and strode into the darkness.

* * *

The water was cool and clear and tasted like heaven, and Babydoll couldn't seem to get enough of it. She registered movement around her and realized that Rocket was trying to restore some semblance of cleanliness. Baby paused, looking at an image of Rocket reflected back in a palm full of water. Did she wish that the suffering and injuries she caused were as simple as just the blood coating her and Rocket's skin?

She did. Anything had to be better than the stab of guilt and betrayal that knifed through her every time Rocket laid eyes on her. At least, if it had only been Blue's death as her burden, she wouldn't have had to look at his accusing stares every time she sought out her travelling companion. Baby let the water sluice back into the rippling surface, no longer thirsty, but not yet ready to face Rocket. She knelt on the ground for a little longer, marshaling her strength for yet another confrontation. When she had centered herself, she rose and turned towards Rocket. Babydoll released a sigh of confusion and frustration when she was met by nothing but empty air. A quick glance revealed something out of place. The decrepit barn door, previously shut, had been cracked open.

Babydoll strode towards the opening and peered into the darkness beyond, blinking as her vision adjusted to the dim environment. Rocket stood naked over her bucket in the center of the large room, an object in hand. Baby squinted her good eye; the edges of the object were rounded, but also rough. The puzzle was solved for her when Rocket dunked the horse brush into the bucket and began to furiously scrub at her hands. Baby watched in fascination, seeing the subtle whipcord muscle dance under Rocket's skin as she was distracted by purging herself of Blue's lifeblood. She hadn't thought of Rocket as muscular, but years of scrubbing floors and hauling potatoes at Lennox House had given her lean strength, and the evidence of that strength was displayed before her.

Taut, was the word that came to mind. Tense like a bowstring, ready to snap, and Baby realized it was true. She needed to perform some miracle, anything to bridge this rift between them, before the pain of her betrayal and the demons that plagued Rocket swallowed her spirit whole. A draft flew past her into the barn and she watched a shiver of cold work its way through Rocket. Vermont was starting to turn cold this time of year, and it would only get worse as they continued to travel. Babydoll looked down at her torn and bloodied shift. The crumpled piles of rags at Rocket's feet were not much better. They needed warm clothing, and they needed it soon. Baby turned her head to scan the barn, the grounds had provided them with water and a means to wash, and that brush had to have come from somewhere. A limp shape hung from a peg from the wall, and Babydoll moved towards it. Closer inspection revealed a black and red checkered pattern. She reached up and tugged the garment off the wall. The faint smells of tobacco, horse and Old Spice rose up from the shirt. It was flannel, perfect for those cold workday mornings, and even better for her on this cold evening. Baby looked across the room as Rocket shook once more. Even better for Rocket, she amended, as she realized the oversized clothing would fall to mid thigh and cover almost as much as their flimsy shifts.

She scuffed her feet on the wooden floorboards as she moved forward, alerting Rocket of her approach, who had finished scrubbing her skin and moved on to rinsing the blood out of her old clothing as best she could. Rocket stood and wrung them out over the bucket. As she twisted, the tendons in her forearms stood out in stark relief.

"I found this." Baby said, holding the shirt out.

Rocket stared at her, blinking repeatedly, as if she was waking from a deep sleep. Where had she gone, Babydoll wondered, all alone with her thoughts and his blood?

"Thank you." Rocket shrugged the shirt on and spoke with an almost clinically detached politeness that made Babydoll want to scream. She wanted to charge forth and shake her until Rocket broke through that icy facade and yelled or cried or kissed her or whatever else. Anything had to be better than this, anything at all. Even if it was bitter rage, at least it would be the furious Rocket she knew, not this lonely, nearly broken shell of a woman.

"Here." Rocket said, holding something out to her, "I guess the farmer liked to layer and we both get lucky tonight." She pushed a second shirt towards her, almost identical to the original. Her eyes raked up and down Babydoll's body, taking in the bloodstains. "You should clean up too." Rocket advised as she walked past her, picking up the bucket and sloshing the pink tinged contents out through the open door. "I'd refill the bucket but, well," Rocket said, glancing down at her own nearly nude form, "you're still wearing shoes."

Babydoll nodded and ventured out into the still falling dusk, pail in hand. When she returned to the barn, Rocket had disappeared again, leaving a neatly folded woolen blanket near the spot where she had left the extra shirt and brush. Dropping the bucket to the floor, Baby plunged the brush in and started scrubbing at the caked blood that coated her like a second skin. The water was freezing and the initial shock of cold almost made her stop, but she kept at it until night fell in earnest and her skin returned to its normal porcelain paleness.

A flurry of motion up in the hay loft drew her attention as she realized Rocket was bedding down for the night. Abandoning her washing, she pulled on the farm shirt and took her blanket in hand. Babydoll climbed up the still sturdy ladder and wondered what the night would hold for her. She would break through Rocket's iron clad defenses or die trying, her very life depended on it.

Both their lives depended on it.


	3. Flynt

**Flynt**

A soft rhythmic beeping sounded in the background. An expensive looking machine with a petite black screen in the corner traced out angular lines of green phosphor in sync with the tempo. A twisted bundle of brightly colored electrical cables ran along the floor to a bed in the center of the room. A figure lay upon that bed, motionless except for a subtle rising and falling of the chest.

_The bastard's still breathing..._

Detective Flynt clenched his fists, the skin of his hands white and bloodless where it stretched tight over his knuckles. He had been the first one to come upon the macabre scene, and his instincts took over before he had a chance to apply conscious thought.

_"Man down!" He shouted into the empty hallway. "I need assistance!" He ripped off his coat and wrapped it around the still gushing wound in the orderly's neck, folding it over and twisting tightly to add compression. The blood seeped through, despite the compress, and Flynt knew time was short. He drew in a deep breath and bellowed for aid once more, his voice deep and resonant._

_This time his call was answered with the patter of running footsteps and concerned voices._

_"I hope that emergency Doc you had is still on duty," Flynt spoke from his position on the floor, looking up as a host of institution staff rounded the corner, "and I hope he's got blood, lots and lots of blood..."_

_The staff took over then, moving as one creature, someone flourished a rolling gurney from behind a locked door and then they were rushing back the way they'd come, pattering feet and concerned voices receding just as quickly as they'd arrived._

_Leaving Flynt all alone in the hallway, coat-less and covered up to his elbows in Blue's blood._

_The smart thing would have been to figure out who had attacked him, and where they had gone. Smarter still to see the droplets of blood and shattered glass marking the floor and how it led to an emergency exit; to notice the patina of dust rubbed away by the handholds of some daring escapists._

_But Flynt was done with playing things the smart way. He was still at odds with himself over rescuing this monster from a fate he had very clearly deserved._

_What he needed now wasn't the myriad clues scattered around him, if only he'd choose to see them. No, Flynt didn't even want to be assigned to this case at the moment, much less solve it. What he needed now was a sink, a sink and a bar._

He had walked back the way he'd come, passing by the gatekeepers wordlessly, as they knew him by sight now. He palmed the massive warped double doors open and fumbled in his pants pocket for his car keys, sending out a silent thanks that he never kept them in his overcoat.

He selected the cruiser key and opened the door, relaxing his bulk into the leather interior as he keyed the ignition and drove exactly the way he felt, like a bat out of hell.

He pointed the headlights towards the nearest glimmer of neon. He remembered parking and getting out, nodding to the bouncer on his way in and ordering a beer and a shot.

Then another beer and a shot.

And then it was just shots.

And now he was here, in the Intensive Care wing of Brattleboro Hospital, staring at the man he'd just saved, and wishing he hadn't.

"You goddamned monster," he growled, "you couldn't leave well enough alone, could ya?"

No response from a comatose Blue sprawled out on the bed.

Somewhere between the first beer and the last shot, Flynt understood what had happened. Maybe it was his innate detective instincts solving the case even though his heart wasn't in it. Maybe it was just Flynt being hopeful that the girls had escaped the nightmare they'd been forced to call home. Either way, he had the truth of it.

"Where are they?" Flynt demanded, stepping towards the bed and wrapping his fingers around the thin material of Blue's hospital gown. The faint beeping surrounding the bed began to speed up in tempo.

The detective's teeth shone in a feral grin. "So you know I'm here, do ya?"

He looked over to where an IV line was pumping large doses of painkillers and sedatives into Blue's bloodstream. He pinched the line clamp shut and waited.

Flynt was rewarded as Blue's eyes shot open and he started to howl in pain. The noise was muffled abruptly as the detective clamped a hand over his mouth and instructed him in a harsh whisper.

"There's no one here but me now, Jones." Flynt told him. "Scream and you die. Are you gonna be quiet now?"

Blue's eyes widened in fear and his adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, but he nodded. Flynt's captive was still, but the monitors around him beeped incessantly. his heart pounding so fast there was scarcely a pause between each tone.

"So now," Flynt counseled, "you're gonna tell me everything; what happened, what they did to you, and where they went. Nice and slow, right?"

Another nod.

The detective took his hand away but kept it close, in case Blue tried to yell for help. When he remained calm, Flynt kept one hand clenched in the thin hospital garb and waited for him to speak.

Blue began his story, his voice wavering slightly. "When-"

A noise behind Flynt startled both of them.

Police Captain Turner slammed the door open as he entered the room, interrupting Flynt's interrogation. His commanding presence and the two officers flanking him filled the tiny ICU.

"What in the name of the seven blue Hells is going on here, Detective?" He waited, urging Flynt to fill the expectant silence.

"I was questioning this suspect, sir." Flynt replied as he stepped back from the bed. He didn't dare look up at his Captain's face.

"He attacked me!" Blue yelped as he backed away from Flynt into a mess of tangled hospital sheets. He raised an accusatory finger at the detective.

The Captain was incredulous, stepping forward to look Flynt in the eye and glean the truth of this matter. As he did, the sharp tang of whiskey filled the air and Turner turned his face away with a sneer of disgust.

"Are you drunk?" He asked his detective, a severe frown pulling down his jowls and carving deep lines into his forbidding countenance.

"No, sir." Flynt reported, bending the truth only slightly. The rush of anger and adrenaline during his assault on Blue had sobered him up fairly thoroughly.

Captain Turner took one look between his detective and the patient and made a decision. "You're off this case, Detective."

"Sir?" Flynt questioned, this case had become his life and he wasn't about to abandon it.

"You never reported in after you went back to Lennox, and now I find you here, attacking the man you just saved? You're too close to it, Flynt. It's become too much and I'm pulling you out." He looked at his man's bedraggled form. "When was the last time you used your days off and took a vacation?"

"I just took one the other-"

"That was five years ago, Flynt," the Captain interrupted, "your honeymoon when you were still married. When you had a life."

Flynt seethed, but kept his mouth shut.

"You have two choices, Detective, either I send you back to the station and chain you to a desk for a few weeks, or you take some of that hard earned vacation time and use it." The Captain waited.

"I'll be in touch." Was Flynt's answer, grabbing his hat. One of the officers bracketing Captain Turner stood in his way. "Am I dismissed, sir?"

"Your weapon, Detective."

Flynt unholstered his gun and extra clip and dropped it into the outstretched hands of the waiting officer. With a growl, he shoved past him and out the door of the ICU.

Flynt rounded the corner and slumped against the wall, feeling his life, and his purpose, crumbling around him. Without this case, without these girls, what meaning did his life have? He didn't have anything worthwhile to go home to, just an empty apartment and a fridge full of condiments and takeout boxes.

Then an idea struck him.

He needed to make a phone call, one answer was all he needed, then he'd tell the Chief he was taking his vacation after all. He glanced at the front desk as he walked past it, suddenly re-energized. He saw the night receptionist seated by the phone, filing her perfectly shaped nails. *No*, he decided, *too public.*

Positioned just outside the entrance to the lobby was a phone booth. Flynt stepped inside, shutting the door as he selected a coin from within his pocket. He fished his moleskine out of his front shirt pocket and thumbed to a well worn page, it listed two numbers and a name. He debated, and then chose the one he'd never dialed before. Flynt picked up the receiver. A coin plunked into the steel belly of the machine and the line went live in his ear. He fitted a finger into the dialer and spun, impatiently watching the rotary spin as he spoke the next number under his breath. Finally the last number dialed and a faint ringing sounded in his ear. He counted the rings, cringing as they hit the double digits but needing to contact the person at the other end of the line.

"Hello?" A voice answered, groggy with sleep.

"Doctor." Flynt said.

"Who is this?" She asked, her mind still a bit hazy.

"It's Detective Flynt." He answered. *Or maybe just 'Flynt' from now on, if this crazy plan of mine actually works.*

Vera was instantly alert. "Detective, has there been a break in the case, Briar, Raquelle?"

"No, no, nothing of that sort." *At least not yet...* He realized he was fumbling his words and took a breath to settle himself.

"I need some information."

"Well of course, Detective, we've gone over their files and in the morning we can-"

"There will be no 'in the morning' for me, Doctor, I'm off the case." He interrupted her, hating himself.

"But why?" She asked him. "You've done nothing but exceptional work when it comes to my case."

"I..." Flynt paused, reluctant to admit the downfall caused by his fool temper. "I forcefully interrogated Jones."

"But isn't he in-"

"The Intensive Care Unit at Brattleboro Hospital after the attack, yes."

She hissed in sympathy. "Then we have a problem."

"That's the short of it, yes."

"Then why this phone call," she cut to the chase,"if you're off the case?"

"Captain Turner offered me two options, vacation leave or desk work."

"Of the two you chose...?"

"To take my vacation leave." He finished.

"And you are...inviting me?" She queried.

Flynt laughed, despite himself, "That might be a bit suspicious, Doctor, especially after I tell you the location I plan on visiting."

"What location would that be, Detective?"

"I was hoping you could tell me." Flynt gathered his courage. "The files contained information about where the two sisters were found. Though what I found very odd was that there was no mention of the hometown they were born in."

"Sometimes patient histories are incomplete, Detective." Vera was vague, hesitant to give this man, a proven ally but still a relative unknown, information known only to her.

"I'm well aware of that, Doctor, I was wondering if they had revealed that information to someone they felt safe with, someone like you."

Vera considered his request, weighing the options and probable consequences. "If you go there, Flynt, and you find them, what would you do? Imprison them again? Leave them to perish in a life of never ending torture and abuse?"

Why **_was_** he going? Flynt didn't rightly know himself. He just knew that he had to get there, had to find them before any of the others did. Once he found them he could-

_What, Flynt, protect them from harm?_ A voice inside his head sneered. _They're all murderers, emotionless butchers, just like you._

"I want-" he faltered, "I want to help them, Vera." He realized he'd never said her name out loud before.

A long pause on the other end of the line, and then a singular word.

"Plainfield." She told him. "They come from Plainfield, Connecticut."

Furious scribbling sounded over the phone a the detective wrote down the city. "Thank you, Doctor, thank you so much."

"You're welcome." A short pause, and then, "Flynt, what is your first name?" Vera asked him, curious.

Flynt was taken aback, he hated his first name. "Why?" He asked, suddenly defensive.

"It's not on your card." She informed him. "And I wanted to know."

"Oh." He winced, blushing as he said his name. "It's Lancelot..."

"Really?" She asked in disbelief, an eyebrow raising. "Hmm, I suppose Briar's not the only one aptly named for this journey."

"I'd appreciate if you kept that information to yourself, Doctor." The detective sounded positively sheepish.

"Don't worry, Flynt, your secret's safe with me." She assured him.

"Thank you Doctor, and goodnight, you probably won't be seeing me for quite some time."

"You're welcome," she told him, "and Flynt..." She continued, hesitating for just a moment. "You can call me Vera, anyone who makes midnight phone calls to confess the need to rescue my girls from danger has earned that."

A warm feeling, wholly surprising and unexpected, filled the detective and he found himself at unaccustomed ease. "Goodnight, Vera." He bid her farewell, hanging up the receiver with a soft click.

At the other end of the line, Vera did the same, smiling to herself as she turned away from the telephone. _My very own Lancelot_*, she mused, *_off to do battle with dragons._


End file.
